


Don't Make it Hawkeward

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Series: Good, Clean Fun of a Sort: The Secret Love Story of Elodie Hawke and Varric Tethras [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Also Alistair gets left in the fade, Background Female Cadash/Blackwall, Banter, Cassandra needs to stop believing Varric and Hawke, Competitive Fake Dating, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, Dwarven girth, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Former Alistair/Female Brosca, Friends to Lovers, Hawke and Varric just LIE, Hightown Funk Exchange, I'm sorry they're just so stupid, Idiots in Love, Idiots to Lovers but they're still idiots after, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Slow Build, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, constantly, faking sex for laughs, sorry Alistair, there was only one tent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Varric likes to think he's the best bullshitter Kirkwall has ever produced, but Hawke knows she can give him a run for his money. When she makes up her mind to convince the Inquisition her and Varric have a secret relationship, it's not like Varric can let her win this little competition. He just didn't count on how quickly things escalate.Smut chapters marked with a *
Relationships: Female Hawke/Varric Tethras
Series: Good, Clean Fun of a Sort: The Secret Love Story of Elodie Hawke and Varric Tethras [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050515
Comments: 41
Kudos: 62
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	1. Challenge Accepted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThedosianScholar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThedosianScholar/gifts).



> I hope you like 10k of Friends (and idiots) to Lovers! Happy High Town Funk! Thank you for the beautiful prompt!

If Varric squints, he can almost pretend they’re back in the Hanged Man where they belong.

Hawke still takes up space the way she always has, too long legs stretched across a whole bench, reclining backwards on one hand while the other lazily waves her shitty hand of cards. She’s still the third worst card player he’s ever met, saved only by Daisy’s refusal to learn the rules and Cole’s inability to stop talking to the face cards.

The sight of her still brings a smile to his face, but there’s a hint of bitterness beneath the joy. Unlike their years in Kirkwall, Varric can’t remember the last time he got a full night of sleep. He’s old, tired, and he sees similar shadows beneath Hawke’s eyes. She’s lost weight, her armor sits just a little looser. When he mentioned it she joked about missing Orana’s cooking, but Varric wonders when the last time she had a decent meal was.

He suspects it was the night before it all went to hell. Fuck, maybe before that. Depends on whether or not any reasonable person counted the Hanged Man’s stew as a decent meal, which he _certainly_ never had.

The door to the Herald’s Rest opens and Varric tears his eyes from Hawke to examine the newest patron. Thankfully, it’s just an Inquisition soldier mopping sweat from his brow and saluting a rowdy table in the back that greets him with cheers.

When he looks back at Hawke, she’s grinning from ear to ear like she’s swallowed a canary whole. “Nervous, Varric?”

“Nothing to be nervous about,” he insists smoothly, watching her discard a card only to replace it with an even worse option. Her nose wrinkles in annoyance and she shakes her head before looking up.

“I haven’t seen you this jumpy since we got back from Chateau Haine.”

He gives her a withering glance over his winning hand. “I was dodging assassins for _weeks_ after Chateau Haine, Hawke.”

“It wasn’t my idea to stop in Val Royeaux,” she sniffs, lips twitching upwards. “For a crossbow-related _errand_.”

“My errand only caused two assasination attempts,” he points out. “The rest were because you had to impress our Qunari spy friend.”

Hawke’s smirk doesn’t drop for a minute. “You were the one who arranged the invitation, serah.”

“ _You_ were the one who gave the pretty elf a list worth a thousand gold for a kiss.”

He summons his grumpiest scowl, but she only beams twice as brightly at the fond memory of her shenanigans. “It was a hell of a kiss, Varric.”

He can’t blame her, he’s done some stupid shit for a kiss before too. He’s got a whole damn reputation, tragic backstory, and lifetime of regrets built on that premise, after all.

Crossbow-related errand, indeed.

“If it makes you feel better, Varric, I don’t think the Seeker is going to hire assassins.” Hawke manages a serious face, but he can tell it’s a struggle to try and soothe his rattled nerves. He appreciates the effort anyway.

“You’re right,” he drawls. “She’s the sort that likes to get her own righteous fists dirty.”

“And not the fun kind of dirty?” Hawke asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Varric raises one eyebrow and gestures to his unbuttoned shirt and the chest he flaunts proudly. “Somehow, she’s immune to all my charms.”

Hawke’s eyes widen, her hand fluttering to her chest. “The horror! And I’m sure you were _so_ helpful and forthcoming.”

Varric tries to keep a straight face, he really does. But Hawke’s wide-eyed faux innocence is too good to ignore. He tips his lips into a rakish half smile and shrugs. “Listen, the fact I managed to get out of being stabbed _immediately_ is only because I’m the best damn storyteller in Thedas.”

Hawke has the _audacity_ to snort in disbelief. He scowls at her unimpressed face. “Something to say there, Hawke?”

“You’re good, Varric, but it takes real skill to dance the Remigold underneath the Chantry’s nose. They’re a lot more sly than the Merchant’s Guild. It’s not your fault you were unprepared.”

She sips at her ale, eyes sparkling wickedly in his direction. Varric crosses his arms over his chest. “A room full of clucking hens in ridiculous hats is more difficult to lie to than the most cutthroat guild in Thedas?” he asks.

“The Guild is all bark, no bite.”

“I’ll tell that to the _next_ batch of assassins.”

Hawke waves the assassins away as easily as only she could. “The same bulk discount assassins they’ve sent thirty times before. Empty threats for a man protected by such dense chest hair.”

When she puts it that way, he’s almost tempted to agree with her. That’s what makes Hawke a menace. She’s just as much a schmoozer as he is, able to get anyone eating out the palm of her hand with a bat of her big blue eyes and a twitch of her pointed nose. The fact she can snap her fingers and light you on fire is only the second most dangerous thing about her.

“I don’t think the Seeker is as dumb as the Templars in Kirkwall, Hawke. Cassandra can’t be fooled by the old ‘this is just my suspiciously glowing walking stick’ line.”

“I’d have sold her on it.” Hawke sounds absolutely sure of herself. “If she was looking for _you_ , I’d have had a story she couldn’t resist that wouldn’t get me close to being stabbed.”

It’s Varric’s turn to scoff. The light of his challenge dances in her eyes. She lowers her mug back to the table with a clank. “Is that _doubt_ I hear, serah?”

“Far be it from me to dismiss the mind who brought us bon mots like ‘freedom tastes like chicken’ while soothing our fine Elven friend.”

Hawke throws her head back and laughs uproariously. Varric’s lips twitch in response and he shakes his head while greedily storing that laughter inside him. Maker’s _ass_ , does it feel good to hear it again.

“Challenge accepted, Varric,” Hawke says smoothly, throwing her losing hand on the table. “Challenge _accepted_.”

* * *

Somebody needs to tell his solicitor, publisher, _and_ accountant there’s a war on, because clearly they’ve not gotten the memo. Why else does Varric spend most of his waking hours untangling his affairs in between trying to track down any lead on their red lyrium problem he can think of?

He never thought he’d be eager to hear the Inquisitor is planning on hauling him out to Crestwood with her and Hawke, but he needs a break from his constant correspondence flooding Skyhold. The fact that this break apparently involves a lake full of undead is not ideal, but he’ll take it.

Varric trudges up the stairs to the Rookery, emerging in the library, in what has unfortunately become part of his twice-daily routine. He’s got a fist full of letters to everybody and their most annoying cousins and all he wants to do is find Hawke and enough people to make up a card game, then spend his evening drowning his sorrows.

He’s less than thrilled to find Cassandra blocking his path, her head bowed, arms crossed over her chest. The back of his neck prickles in unease, more than a little suspicious she’s been waiting for him.

He doesn’t have time to be chased across the library while she swings pointy objects around. When she lifts her eyes to stare at him, he holds up his fistful of parchment in defense. “Seeker, if you want to play punching bag with the dwarf later, you better let me get these to my publisher before _she_ murders me.”

“I am not here to fight,” Cassandra snaps, glaring down her nose at the floor, “ _obviously_.”

“Good, glad we cleared that up.” Varric mutters under his breath, sidestepping her stiff form. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“I am here to apologize.”

For a second, he thinks he’s finally lost his hearing. His eyes swing up to Cassandra’s, startled, only to notice several _far_ more concerning things. The Seeker’s lips are set in a frown that almost looks… ashamed. Her crossed arms lead to a white knuckle grip on her elbows, a nervous tick if he’s ever seen one, and now that he can look into her face…

Maker’s _ass_ , Cassandra can’t be blushing, can she?

“You’re here to apologize?” he repeats. “To me? I’m flattered. What’s it gonna cost?”

Her fiery dark eyes finally meet his. “Do not be an ass,” she orders. “It was foolish of me to… to not consider the implications of your relationship.”

“Oh so _now_ you believe me when I say I had no reason to trust the chantry?” Varric asks. “Nice of you to come around.”

She goes rigid, but the tongue lashing he expects doesn’t come. “It is… admirable. The things you have done to protect her. I was foolish to not see it.”

Varric is beginning to feel a bit foolish himself and more than a little suspicious he doesn’t have some crucial bit of information. “What can I say?” he asks instead with a meaningless shrug.

“You do not have to say anything,” Cassandra slumps, uncrossing her arms. “I… in your position, I do not know what I would have done, if someone I loved…”

She keeps talking, but Varric doesn’t hear her. His mind grinds to a screeching halt while he tries to process the bizarre conversation he’s found himself in. He’s in the Fade again, clearly, and it’s Hawke’s fault. Or he’s been poisoned, or he’s _dead_ , or…

“I…” Yes, Cassandra is indeed blushing red as the Blooming Rose’s sheets as she stutters to a stop. “I should have expected you to be so passionate. Your romance series-”

Varric can’t take it. He really can’t. “My _romance series_? You’re not serious.”

He thought she was red before. It’s nothing to the shade she turns next, a color he doesn’t quite have a word for. “I- I must go. The Inquisitor is expecting me. There are errands, important ones, and I-”

The whole time she’s talking, she’s backing away from him. He swears she almost trips and falls over a stack of manuscripts before taking off onto the battlements, leaving him shell shocked. He stares at the door she vanished through, waiting to wake up.

Instead, he hears a slow, loud clap coming from above him. It startled the birds in the Rookery into soft caws, but it doesn’t drown out Hawke’s delighted giggles. “ _Bravo_ , Varric. Well _done_.”

He swings towards her voice automatically, staring up at her long, human torso draped over the railing like she couldn’t quite get close enough to the disaster she’s caused. The grin she wears spells nothing but trouble and it causes a lurch of anticipation in his gut that makes him itch to reach for Bianca.

As usual, he doesn’t know whether to shake her or kiss her.

So he does the next best thing and flies up the final set of stairs. He emerges into the Rookery to Hawke holding one irritated bird out to him in both her hands. It flaps its wings and caws indignantly. “Look!” she winks down at him with a saucy little smirk. “Your _favorite_ bird got your second favorite bird all ready to go.”

Varric eyes the squawking raven. “Impressive,” he drawls finally. “I didn’t know she could drag you the whole way up here.”

Hawke merely cackles while he grabs the bird and strolls over to the nearest table. Hawke’s boots clack on the stone close behind him in a leisurely, rolling gate. Despite his inner turmoil, she appears to be as calm and collected as a Chantry mother.

She’s the only one. Everyone else in the Rookery is staring at them. A knot of scouts whispers excitedly in the corner. He swears he even sees coins change hands, but he studiously ignores it until he can dump his letters on the nearest surface. Hawke collapses into an empty chair and plucks one of his notes from the mess, beginning to roll it expertly into a tiny tube.

He’s reminded, with a pang, of all the times she sat beside his desk and did the same while they swapped stories and drank the finest swill the Hanged Man had on offer. Things were simpler then. Easier.

“Interesting conversation I just had with the Seeker,” Varric mumbles quietly.

Hawke looks positively delighted with herself. “Did she tell you about your romance serial?” she whispers. “Right hand to Andraste, I had no idea _anyone_ was reading it.”

There it is, worst fears confirmed. His fingers move automatically, restlessly sorting all his papers while avoiding Hawke’s bright gaze. “So your solution to my Seeker problem was to lie more. Genius. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

“It’s perfect!” Hawke defends, tossing her inky black hair over her shoulder. “She’s such a _sap_ , Varric. _I_ can’t believe you didn’t see it. All I did was tell her you left out the most important parts of the story.”

“Which are?” he asks bitterly.

If she notices his tone, she doesn’t react. She simply grins even more brightly. “The parts about _us_ , of course.”

There is no _us_. Varric doesn’t do _us_. He _has_ a lady love that he serves with knightly devotion in a tragic romance fit for the ages. That woman _isn’t_ Hawke.

The fact that the woman in question is busy, currently not answering his letters, banned from his presence, and inconveniently married to someone else are all just unimportant details.

“So now instead of lying to the Seeker, we’re lying to _everyone_ about a relationship we don’t have.” Varric tries to keep the annoyance out of voice. “Somehow that doesn’t seem better.”

Hawke rolls her eyes and slumps over the table. “You’d swear I nicked Bianca instead of saving your chest hair from future stabbings, serah.”

“You’re right. You’ve never caused more problems by trying to help. My mistake.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it. She withdraws immediately, blue eyes crackling. “Right. We should stick with your plan, which was to avoid it for how long again?”

He turns his full attention to her icy stare. She doesn’t back down for a minute, lifting her chin imperiously into the air in a stubborn gesture that says she’s right, she knows she’s right, and he’s an _idiot_.

“I suppose…” she begins silkily, mouth splitting in a predatory grin, “if you think you can’t keep up the ruse, we can always arrange a breakup. I know you’re getting a bit old for the long con, it requires so much… _stamina_.”

Her tongue twists around the final word, turning it filthy in a manner that sends an unwelcome shiver of heat down his spine. He should tell her that’s what they’re going to do. He doesn’t need her chaos at this particular point in his life, they’ve got bigger problems.

And yet, a part of him has _missed_ this, missed her and her ridiculous shenanigans. Yes, this is going to end badly, most likely with both of them looking like idiots with their asses out. But they’ll be doing it together once again.

“Have it your way Hawke,” he sighs, surrendering. “But I don’t wanna hear it when you’re enamoured with the chest hair and it ruins you for all the pretty elves in Thedas.”

Just like that, her irritation vanishes. Her sunny smile is back, and twice as radiant in her victory. She claps her hands together and jumps out of her chair. “Excellent. I _knew_ you’d see sense.”

He has _not_ seen sense. Quite the opposite in fact. Before he can complain, Hawke leaps into action. He barely registers her long fingers curling into his tunic, brushing against the exposed plane of his chest before she wrenches him up to her mouth.

Then, _Maker help him_ , he’s kissing Hawke.

It’s not the first time. They’ve been drunk together _far_ too often to have many firsts left. But this is the first time he’s completely sober, the first time they won’t be interrupted by the cheers and jeers of their friends. This is the first time Hawke’s lips linger, the first time her tongue slides over the seam of his mouth begging for entrance.

It’s the first time he grants it. The first time his broad hands find her waist and tug her flush to him. He’s not about to be outdone in this charade, after all. Hawke makes a small noise of approval, her hand cupping his stubbled jaw. Something clenches deep inside him.

Then she’s gone, cheeks flushed with amusement, eyes sparkling. “Herald’s Rest later?” she asks brightly and loudly, tweaking his chin in between her fingers.

He gives her back his best roguish grin. “Never miss it, beautiful.”

 _Challenge accepted_.


	2. Idiots in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fake dating goes well. Maybe a little _too_ well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake smut in this chapter at the end!

“You’re not going to believe this,” Hawke chirps like they’re not slogging through rain so constant he’s in danger of becoming moldy, “but I’ve never spent this much time with a female dwarf before.”

Kenna Cadash side eyes Hawke with the same bewilderment she’s treated the Champion of Kirkwall with since the moment they met. The Inquisitor doesn’t quite know what to make of the cheerful, talkative apostate. Kenna’s first approach to most situations is to stab first, ask questions later. To be fair, Varric is sure it served her well as a Carta assassin, but Hawke’s easy charm is completely foreign for her.

“Same as fighting alongside a male dwarf,” she mutters darkly. “With less belching and beard, typically.”

Hawke looks over her shoulder at him and smirks. “Is that why you shave yours off? To stop the belching?”

“I thought he did it for you, to be honest.”

Kenna says it half to herself, like she doesn’t expect anyone to be paying attention to her. She’s busy adjusting her gloves and doesn’t even realize they’re all watching her until she looks up. “What?” she demands irritably. “Human girls don’t like beards very much, do they?”

“I don’t know,” Sera asks with a sly giggle and a pointed elbow in between the seams of Blackwall’s armor. “Do they, Beardy?”

“I’m not very interested in what human girls want, unlike _some_ people.” Blackwall doesn’t keep the affection out of his voice when he lightly shoves Sera forward. The elf cackles, but it’s not enough of a distraction for Varric not to notice the way Blackwall looks at Kenna.

Good match. Noble knight with a tragic history (no matter what he refused to say) meets Carta assassin with a heart of gold (despite her protests to the contrary). It would make the perfect addition to the story, add in just the hint of romance the masses went wild for.

Not that he’s thinking of writing another book. The thing with Hawke had been to throw heat off all them and onto Anders, who so graciously volunteered to be their scapegoat after he blew up the Maker-damned chantry. Varric isn’t the type to trail after heroes trying to save the world.

“Well?” Kenna prods, eyes alight with curiosity. “Did you shave your beard off to please your girlfriend?”

Varric opens his mouth to deny it, but Hawke doesn’t let him. “Of course he did!” she claims, winking at Varric over Kenna’s head. “I’ve got sensitive skin. It was like getting a road rash every time I wanted to put that tongue of his to work.”

Kenna’s loud, raucous laugh echoes over the soaked landscape. It’s the first time he’s seen her look so pleased, amusement melting away all her suspicion and wariness to leave nothing but a too young face under her dripping hood.

He’d forgotten she was a kid for a moment, but Hawke always brings out the best parts of people. It’s a thing of beauty to watch.

_If only she’d stop talking._

“It was red, you know.” Hawke’s whisper is meant to carry, like an actress on a stage. “Red as the blood of angry Dwarven women, I suspect. He used to put all sorts of flashy gold bits in it and spend _hours_ braiding it.”

The urge to kick is her overwhelming. Instead he inserts his own voice into the discussion. “How else was I supposed to attract a penniless Ferelden refugee? I left out turnip soup for weeks as a traditional courting practice but all I got was your uncle.”

Hawke sighs dramatically. “Poor Gamlen. He never did get over losing your affections to me. I’ve heard he drinks away his sorrows at the Blooming Rose every night.”

Varric chuckles. “Not that a fine, upstanding pair like us ever visited the Rose to find out.”

Hawke winks over her shoulder at him. “No matter what happens Varic, we’ll always have the Rose.”

“Is that where the two of you met?” Kenna asks from Hawke’s elbow. “The brothel?”

“Well, actually-”

“I saw her first,” Varric interrupts. Like _hell_ is he going to live with whatever nonsense Hawke comes up with. “There was this informant down at the docks, we called him Itchy. Don’t ask why.”

Kenna’s mouth, already opening, clicks shut. Hawke continues to amble along, but he can see in the tip of her head she’s listening intently. “Itchy comes up to me one night and says the Coterie decided to do the Antivan tango with a group of smugglers run by some no-name elf. I ask where to send my respects for the elf, only to learn it’s the Coterie asking for donations to hold services for some of their least reputable members.”

“Little did I know I’d caught the attention of the most scandalous dwarf in Kirkwall,” Hawke drawls.

“Back then I was only the third most scandalous dwarf,” Varric insists. “But I always had a nose for a good story. I asked Itchy to track down this no-name elf and her crew. He comes back with one name - _Hawke_.”

“Like Zither, that bard from Orlais.” Hawke waves her hand in the air as if imagining her name on a sign above a theatre. “Catchy. Interesting.”

“Imagine how intrigued I was when I tracked her down and found out she was a penniless Ferelden apostate wearing her brother’s shirts and cracking the _worst_ jokes I’d ever heard.”

Hawke turns back to him, affronted. “Those are fighting words, Varric. Keep it up and you’ll be sleeping in the Ferelden mud you’ve been complaining about all damn day.”

He grins at her playful anger. “But what can I say? I’ve always been a fool for a pretty face.”

 _That_ catches her off guard. She stumbles into silence, blinking owlishly. Beneath the raindrops on her face, he swears she may _actually_ be blushing. It’s not often he manages to shut her up so completely. Varric gleefully stores this victory and the sight of her reddened cheeks away to be immortalized in print later.

“So you went up to her, told her you hated her jokes, and asked her out for a drink?” Blackwall asks dryly. “Interesting approach. Can’t say I ever tried it.”

“Of course not!” Varric protests. “I’m a romantic at heart, after all.”

“So what did you do?” Kenna’s voice bubbles with excitement. Hawke crosses her arms over her chest and waits, eyebrows climbing up her forehead.

“I set her up to be pickpocketed and swooped in to save the day.” Varric smirks and twirls a bolt lazily between his fingers. Hawke’s eyes fly to the familiar motion just as her face breaks into a smug grin.

“I _knew_ you set that up, you insufferable liar,” she accuses.

Varric winks up at her. “Worked like a charm though, didn’t it?”

Hawke sighs in defeat. “What can I say? I’ve always been an idiot for dashing rogues.”

“Sounds like a perfect match,” Kenna points out, shrewd gaze swinging between the two of them. “Idiots in love.”

Blackwall almost chokes on his laughter and Kenna flashes a wicked grin up at him, missing the look Hawke and Varric share. Varric slides up, slipping his arm around her waist and drags her from the Inquisitor’s side as smoothly as he’s nabbed her away from many a boring nobleman at _many_ a fancy party.

“Idiots in love,” Hawke mutters under her breath, throwing her own arm around his shoulder. “As if she’s got any room to talk.”

Even beneath the damp fabric, despite his leather gloves, Varric swears he can feel the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. It makes him wonder if that blush of hers goes the whole way down her torso.

She’s a beautiful woman, his Hawke, and it’s not like he’s never noticed. Varric doesn’t usually see the appeal in tall and gangly, but damn does she wear it well. Maybe in another world, maybe if he hadn’t made a promise once, he’d have found out all the ways she blushed.

“As if we’re ever idiots about anything,” Varric agrees. “Children these days. Get a magic mark on their hand and then they get mouthy.”

Hawke nods in firm agreement.

* * *

Alistair Theirin has been staring at them from the corner of his eye for twenty minutes and Varric is starting to feel twitchy.

The next time Varric catches Hawke’s gaze as they drag the corpses of the fallen Grey Wardens to the center of the Ritual Tower, he flicks his own to the warrior then back to Hawke. She tips her head to the side in both silent acknowledgement and unspoken question. _How long_?

Varric shrugs his answer. _Too long_.

The corner of Hawke’s lips twitch and she lets her eyes trail down his open shirt in clear implication. _Maybe he’s got a thing for chest hair_?

Maybe the famous Warden has a thing for fiery warrior apostates. He’s exactly the type Hawke could easily seduce and have a wild night with, if she wasn’t trapped in this bizarre plan of her own making.

He’s oddly glad for it. At least she won’t be keeping him up with her moaning like a ghoul in the Deep Roads while she’s getting unceremoniously laid.

_At least he won’t be tortured by the thought of her-_

The thought surprises him. He blinks and shakes his head to rid himself of that image before it can take hold. Hawke’s lips purse, her brow wrinkling, lips forming into another silent question: _Alright there, Varric_?

 _Clearly_ he is not. It’s the fact he’s been forced to spend every waking moment playing this role with her, at her side, falling into a pantomime of a relationship they could never have. It’s messing with his head.

“I should have guessed about the two of you.”

Alistair interrupts their moment, tossing a corpse unceremoniously on top of all the others and turning a cheerful, cheeky grin to them. “I’m just surprised your brother never mentioned it.”

“Carver doesn’t approve, sadly.” Hawke jumps in. “Once he challenged Varric to a duel for my virtue and was utterly devastated to find out I didn’t have any.”

“Then he told me there were no refunds and got himself nearly killed to get away from us,” Varric adds. “I even sent him a card saying he’s the world’s best future brother-in-law and the only thing he sent _me_ was a cease and desist letter.”

Alistair laughs. “Well. That _does_ sound like Carver.”

Hawke’s smile softens at the corners, the same sappy way it does whenever she talks about her younger brother. “He’ll come around once Varric eventually forgives all his gambling debts, I’m sure.”

“Well, it’s hard to deny you two go well together. Despite the er… differences in your stature.”

Varric is about to make a quip about Dwarven stamina making up for stature when Hawke bristles beside him. She steps forward, tipping her chin up, and despite the looming height of their Warden friend Varric thinks for a minute Hawke is about to wipe the floor with him.

He kinda wants to see it, not gonna lie.

“Stature isn’t a problem when you’re as _endowed_ as Varric is, serah.” Hawke’s eyes flit dismissively across the warrior. “ _Trust_ me.”

Alistair takes a wise step back and throws his hands up, color rising up to the tips of his ears. “Listen, I know all about the… _benefits_ of exploring the deep roads.”

A flash of pain crosses his face, something so raw and unexpected that Varric feels an echo of it in his own gut. Hawke’s arms drop and Alistair’s smile tips up sadly. “Natia and I, during the Blight, we…”

 _Natia_. Natia Brosca: Carta dwarf, Orzammar exile, Paragon, Hero of Ferelden. Dead for ten years after stopping the Archdemon. Brother Genitivi had left out the tragic romance from his account, apparently. No wonder Varric outsold him.

“She was a force in battle, all I did was trail behind her and make sure nobody stabbed her in the back.” Alistair nods toward Varric and Hawke with that same sad smile. “Reminds me of you two. Haven’t seen anyone else fight so well together since.”

“Ah shit,” Hawke swears. “I’m sorry, I’m a-”

“Don’t,” Alistair holds up his hand to placate her. “Don’t worry about it.”

The awkward silence fills the air before Alistair shrugs. “Welp, there’s still a lot of murder to clean up. If you’ll excuse me.”

Hawke and Varric turn to watch him vanish back into the ruins, the long shadows of the broken pillars eclipsing him in a moment. As soon as he’s gone, Varric spears Hawke with his gaze. “Smooth as always.”

Hawke groans and scrubs at her face. “I know, I’m an idiot.”

He places a reassuring palm on the small of her back. “You couldn’t have known. And, frankly, it was very… _alluring_ coming to my defense like that. I almost feel the need to swoon into your arms.”

“You sure?” Hawke asks with a little anxious half-smile. “I may drop you.”

“Thank the Maker for Dwarven stature making it a short fall, then.” Varric quips easily.

Hawke laughs so hard it turns into a wheeze, bending over double and clutching onto him for support. He watches her fondly, feeling her fingers curl into the leather armor over his shoulders.

“Thank fucking Andraste for you, Varric,” she finally whispers, brushing tears from the corner of her eyes. “What would I do without you?”

Varric catches sight of Alistair through the columns once more and remembers vividly the flash of agony over his noble features.

What would Varric do without Hawke? The very idea chills him to the bone despite the sun overhead.

Then he pushes that thought away and follows her back to the others.

* * *

The Western Approach is scorching during the day. Varric’s sunburn has sunburn, he’s got sand in places he’d rather not think about, and overall he can’t think of a single worse place to spend his waking hours.

He wishes it improved at night, but it doesn’t. The desert turns to an icy abyss stretching in all directions from their camp. It’s enough to make a man feel like he’s the only soul in the world.

If that man isn’t sharing a tent with Hawke, that is.

Her human limbs take up all the precious room they have, but do absolutely nothing to warm the space. In fact, she buries herself underneath every blanket she can beg, borrow, and steal until nothing but her flashing eyes and pointed nose are visible. He climbs over her ridiculous legs to find the one insignificant scrap of cloth she’s left him before glaring at her.

“I forgot how much fun camping with you is,” he grumbles.

“Oh, sorry,” her voice is muffled, but the words no less clear, “remind me again of all the seven hundred places you have sand where it doesn’t belong. I’ll wait.”

“You don’t share your blankets, you’ll be deprived of my dulcet tones when I freeze to death.”

Her eyes crackle wickedly. “More than one way to keep a man warm, Varric.”

“Lighting me on fire isn’t going to solve my problems, but I’m cold enough to be tempted anyway.” He wraps his own paltry blanket around his broad shoulders. Hawke cackles in delight.

“You look like an _idiot_ ,” she says affectionately.

“I’m afraid hypothermia isn’t going to improve my looks so you better cough up one of those-”

Before he can finish his demands, Hawke pulls down the blanket from her mouth. Her words echo, he’s sure they can be heard clearly through their thin canvas tent. “Oh _Varric_ , I’m so _cold_ , let me warm my hands in your impressive chest hair.”

He barely stops himself from laughing. Instead he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, matching her volume as he speaks. “Sweetheart that’s not even the most impressive thing I’m hiding.”

She snorts, hand flying to her mouth to stop herself from dissolving into giggles. By the time she wrenches it away, her voice has smoothed into a sultry curl that slides inside him like the finest whiskey money can buy. “Well, come here and show me handsome.”

He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Only if you share your damn blankets.”

She shakes her head from side to side, mouth opening again. The sound that comes out…

 _Andraste’s ass, that sound_.

Hawke _moans_. It’s a deep, throaty thing that comes from deep inside her. She throws her head back and revels in it. “Yes…” she hisses in a tone sure to carry into the night outside. “ _Yes_ , just like _that_.”

He cannot believe her, and at the same time, he _absolutely_ can. She probably thinks this is the best joke she’s ever played, tricking everyone and their brother into thinking she’s… that he is…

Two can play at this game. He lowers his voice an octave. “You like that, do you?”

She shivers. Probably from the cold. _Definitely_ from the cold.

“You know I do,” she gasps theatrically. “I like you big, Dwarven-”

“Easy, beautiful.” Varric chuckles. “People might be listening.”

Someone outside their tent giggles, it sounds like Scout Harding. Hawke simply grins from ear to ear, opens her mouth...

_And moans his name._

“Varric…. Varric, _please_ -”

It hits him like a crossbow bolt in the gut. He feels like he’s been shot with lightning. In a heartbeat he’s across the tent, his hand over her mouth. Hawke’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t lift a finger to remove it. In fact, he swears he can feel her panting, the warmth of her cheeks, the thud of her heartbeat.

He wants her. He _wants_ her. Somehow, this game has gone too far. Varric wants nothing more than to silence her with his lips instead of his hand, to lay her down and ravish her until there’s no artifice behind her moans, until he drags every little noise she can make through those lying, lovely lips of hers.

She makes a noise beneath his hand, a question that takes the shape of his name. Desire claws at his throat like a demon and for a moment he considers capturing that question with a kiss and damn the consequences.

Clearly he’s never learned his lesson.

He removes his fingers from her lips and tips his lips into the shakiest smile he’s ever managed. “I think we’ve given them enough to talk about tonight.”

Hawke looks like she may argue for a second. Her eyes swing from his eyes to his lips, then flick into the darkness behind him before she shrugs one blanket from her shoulders. “Well I suppose you’ve earned a blanket, serah.”

“Kind of you,” Varric says, trying not to stare at the creamy white skin he sees for just a moment. Their fingers brush as she hands it over and Varric feels that simple, soft touch the whole way down his spine.

Shit, _shit_.

“I’ll share the rest if you promise to help keep me warm,” she offers quietly. “Imagine the indignity of having the sequel to Tale of the Champion end with ‘and then she froze to death in the worst place in Thedas’, Varric.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be writing a sequel.” Even though he knows he shouldn’t, he allows her to curl up next to him as they lay down. She flips on her side to face him, blue eyes boring into his.

“You will,” she whispers. “You can’t resist getting the last word in. Just make sure you let me retire in peace somewhere in Antiva at the end.”

He swallows, hard. “For you, Hawke? Anything.”

The silence is heavy. Then Hawke reaches across the divide, tucks a piece of loose hair behind his ear. “At least if we die here, we had a good last run, Varric.”

His chest tightens painfully. A part of him wants to grab her hand and bring her knuckles to his lips. Instead he simply manages one last weak smile. “If we die here, I’m never going to forgive you.”


	3. Playing with Fire*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric decides they need to have a little chat about Hawke doing stupid shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut in the middle of this chapter! You've been warned.

Varric will never get the taste of sulfur out of his mouth or the demon guts out of his chest hair.

He is a _dwarf_. Dwarves do not belong in the Fade and he is frankly sick of getting dragged there. In fact, he’s never going to stop complaining about this latest misadventure.

Assuming he survives it, that is.

Somehow, he’d forgotten about the raging battle happening in Adamant while they’d foundered through the Fade to try and find a way out of it. He’s not pleased to stumble out of the Nightmare’s den right into a pitched battle between Inquisition troops, the remaining Wardens, and more demons than he’s ever seen in his life (which says something, since he grew up in Kirkwall.)

“Where’s the Inquisitor?” Cullen roars.

Right behind him. The Inquisitor, Hawke, Alistair… they’d been right behind him. Varric turns to look over his shoulder and sees nothing but the rift spinning menacingly.

Then it crackles, green light brightening in a sickening glow. Kenna Cadash topples through, falling on her palms. In the blink of an eye, Blackwall is beside her to pull her to unsteady feet. Varric looks back into the rift, heart stuttering to a stop in his chest.

_Where’s-_

Then Hawke is there, tumbling through the rift and to the ground behind him with a sharp cry. Varric ducks back to her side just as Kenna stands and thrusts her hand out. Energy sizzles through air choked with the strange, haunting cries of the demons and the screams of dying men but Varric can’t think of anything but getting to Hawke.

The rift closes just as his arms circle Hawke and bring her to his chest. Her shoulders shake, her face buries itself in his shoulder. His gloved fingers find her dark hair and bury themselves in it, holding her tight while he breathes in the scent of smoke that clings to her along with the sharp tang of lyrium mixed with blood.

The battlefield falls eerily silent, the only sound his thudding heart and Hawke’s rattled breathing. Varric closes his eyes as a silent sob shakes her form, running his fingers through her hair soothingly.

“Where’s Warden Alistair?” someone asks. The silence lasts a beat too long, long enough for him to feel Hawke tremble against him like an earthquake.

“He didn’t make it,” Kenna finally answers.

“It should have been me,” Hawke whispers brokenly into his neck. “It was supposed to be _me_.”

“Stop it,” he murmurs, his stomach clenching. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.”

The reassuring words come easily. He’d said the same when they pulled Leandra’s broken body from that hellhole beneath the city. He remembered the aching wound pulsing inside him while he watched grief swallow Hawke whole.

Now he can name it: _fear_. Fear that he has almost lost her, fear that he _will_ lose her. Has he loved her that long and never realized? Maybe. _Probably_. He’s spent so long frightened of becoming his parents who spent their lives clinging to outdated traditions and glorious ancestry, that he never realized he’d been doing the same damn thing with his past.

What if, instead of Alistair, it was Hawke lost forever in the Fade?

Varric shudders and closes his eyes, whispering a prayer of gratitude to a Maker he doesn’t quite believe in that she’s safe.

That he’s not too late.

* * *

After the shock wears off, Varric is more furious than he’s ever been in his life.

Hawke has done some stupid shit. Hell, Varric has _helped_ Hawke do some stupid shit. There was the Bone Pit (worst investment decision he’d ever seen and he’s in the Merchant’s Guild, he’s seen some shit), giving Gamlen an allowance (at least the Blooming Rose made out on that one), stealing a whole set of Templar armor (what had even been the point?), and using blood magic to wake up a crazy dead guy from Tevinter (yes, he’s aware they didn’t have any other options but Maker’s ass what a mistake.)

But this one? This takes the goddamn cake. The worst part is that Hawke doesn’t say a word about it. Varric learns about Hawe’s stupidity from Kenna Cadash in a few whispered sentences that just about ruin him.

_She wanted to stay, Varric. Thought she was gonna fight Alistair for the honor of dying in that place._

The realization that his invincible, clever, beautiful Hawke almost sacrificed herself in the Fade to atone for Maker knows what is too much to bear. How the hell is he supposed to spin that into an ending worthy of her? How the hell did she expect him to go on without her?

All excellent questions, and for once Varric is going to get a straight answer to them.

“We need to talk,” he says to the long, tense line of her back.

She’s been avoiding him for days as they tend to their wounded and mop up what little resistance is left for the Inquisition, leaving him little choice but to corner her in one of the storerooms of Griffon Wing Keep. Mostly empty shelves line the walls, sacks of grain and barrels of ale stacked haphazardly around them.

Hawke turns with a handful of precious lyrium vials in her hands and gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m not sure we really _need_ to, but Maker, aren’t we good at it?”

Too good at it, in fact. It would be too easy to allow her to throw this whole conversation off course. Instead he dives in headfirst, refusing to give her room to wiggle away. The door is at his back, he’s locked it behind them, and they are having this conversation whether or not they both like it.

“Always thought you hated spiders, Hawke. Color me shocked you wanted to stay and set up house with one.”

Her smile vanishes and she simply stares at him across the room. Then her mouth opens and he knows she’s rehearsed this, he knows her well enough to pick up all her little tells.

“You know what they say, Varric. Gotta face your fears someday.”

“Did you think about what we were gonna do without you?” he asks, stepping towards her. “The letters I was gonna have to write? Who was gonna tell your brother, Hawke?”

“Carver’s got Merrill,” Hawke smiles, a brittle thing that conveys none of her warmth. “Isabela’s got her boat, Anders has his cause, Sebastian’s got Starkhaven, Fenris has his revenge, and Aveline’s got Kirkwall. They’d be fine, Varric. They don’t need me.”

“ _I_ need you,” he protests. Somehow he’s close enough to touch her, but he’s afraid if he does he’s going to shake her. “What about me? I’d be stuck here playing the mourning lover while you-”

“You’ve got _Bianca_ ,” Hawke snaps, her eyes flashing furiously, “just the way you like it.”

The realization hits him all at once. A flood of memories that threaten to wash him away. Hawke’s fingers buried in his tunic while she sobbed for Carver in the Deep Roads, her eyes searching for him in a crowded ballroom, the way she clung to him before she got on Isabela’s ship, her words echoing across space and time.

_So Bianca stands in my way again, does she?_

He doesn’t have Bianca. He almost lost Hawke. And he’s an _idiot_.

“How long?” he demands.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.” Varric’s hands act without his permission, thick fingers reaching out to curl into her arms. “How long were you going to keep this crush a secret from me?”

Hawke’s wild, desperate laughter careens off the stone around them. “ _Clearly_ I was going to die with it instead of dealing with the embarrassment of being rejected for a _crossbow_ and a dream.”

“What if I didn’t?” Varric asks, his own desperation bubbling beneath his words.

“I don’t need your pity-”

He doesn’t let her finish. He tugs her too long human torso down with his grip in her shirt. She stumbles forward half a step, just long enough for him to slide his fingers into her hair and pull her mouth greedily to his.

This kiss is all tongue and teeth. For once in his damn life, he doesn’t hold back. He gives her everything he’s beginning to realize he’s desperately wanted to give her since that first moment he saw her leaning on a shopkeeper’s stall cracking terrible jokes without a care in the world.

He knows better now. Hawke’s arms tremble like they’re tired of holding up the world. He’s tired of watching her shoulder the burden alone.

She wrenches away from his lips but doesn’t bother to straighten herself or pull out of his grip. “Don’t do this to me, Varric,” she pleads. “Don’t make me ruin you too.”

“You’ve never ruined a damn thing in your life,” he rasps, rubbing his thumbs in small circles over her skin. “ _Except_ ruining me for all other women. Especially if you go and die on me.”

The vials she holds clatter to the stone below. This time _she_ surges forward, hands cradling his jaw while the dam between them crumbles and breaks. It sweeps away every last excuse, leaves nothing in its wake but a flood of lust and dizzying relief.

“How long?” she whispers against his lips, blue eyes flying open. He can see, for the first time, the whole way to the depths of her soul. He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“Forever,” he admits, “but in tried and true fashion, I didn’t realize it until that night in the tent.”

“Knew I should have jumped your bones. Lost my nerve at the last second.”

He laughs lightly against her lips before pressing another soft kiss to them. “You sure about this Hawke? Once we cross this line, I can’t go back.”

Not that he’s sure he can go back _now_. The taste of her on his lips, the feel of her body against his, all those dizzying moments of possibility crystalizing into this one perfect moment. It’s perfect, _she’s_ perfect.

Her fingers tighten in his tunic, hauling him up with easy strength. “You try to go out that door, I’m lighting you on fire, so help me.”

Well, Varric always has liked playing with fire.

He searches the room desperately before his eyes alight on a pile of sacks. A creative mind could make them into a chaise lounge, and Varric possesses just such a mind. He wraps his arms around Hawke’s torso and looks up at her. “Trust me?”

Her answer is both sure and immediate. “More than anyone else.”

His hands sink to the curve of her ass and squeeze reverently. Hawke actually giggles. “Do you remember telling Isabela that Kirkwall should put my ass on the flag?”

“I stand by that statement.” He’s never been more grateful for all his Dwarven musculature. It’s easy to lift Hawke off her feet despite her endless legs. Like she’s read his mind, her limbs wrap around his waist in seconds.

At the same time her lips drag back to his. He closes his eyes and allows himself to get lost in the slide of her tongue, the way her long fingers find his hair and tug the tie from it until she can run her hands though it unimpeded. He almost trips over the sacks he means to lay her onto when she bites his lip.

Varric tosses her down while she laughs. Hawke’s legs don’t release their hold on his waist and he half falls on top of her, caught only by one arm thrown out beside her lean torso. Her nimble fingers find his tunic and immediately begin plucking open the buttons one by one while she rolls her hips against him.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, you know,” she shoves the tunic aside, heated gaze burning a path down the thick hair on his chest to where it narrows before vanishing into his breeches. She impatiently tugs at the knot of his sash, smirking. “To be honest, always thought it’d happen in Corf’s storeroom.”

“In Corf’s- Hawke, I lived upstairs and you were fantasizing about the _storeroom_?” Varric rips her own tunic from where it’s tucked into her pants, but he pushes it up her muscled abdomen slowly. He eats up the little shudders as his fingers drag up her scarred skin.

He knows so many of them, intimately in fact, that it’s like returning to a favorite book. A Tal-Vashoth spear, a demon’s claws, the Arishok’s blade… he’s watched Hawke bleed and triumph so much that it makes his heart ache with it.

“The Nightmare knew,” he murmurs, pulling her shirt over her head, leaving her bare before him. He revels in her small, firm breasts, her sensitive skin. “It knew what scared me.”

“Becoming your parents,” Hawke mutters impatiently as she undoes his sash. “Like you have the beard for it.”

“No.” Varric rubs his stubbled jaw down her chest, feeling her shiver beneath him. “Losing you because of my own _idiocy_.”

“Varric-” His lips close on the pointed tip of her nipple just as she tries to reassure him so his name dissolves into a moan that goes right through him, lights a desperate inferno inside him.

“Later, beautiful.” He trails his tongue around her breast, capturing the neglected one in his palm and squeezing lightly. “First, you’re gonna moan my name.”

“Promises, promises,” Hawke gasps. He pinches her nipple between his fingers lightly until she makes a soft, keening noise that makes his cock throb in his pants. Varric smirks and sucks lightly on the one by his mouth until she moans again, arching up into his greedy touch.

His eyes feast on her, committing every little twitch and flush to memory. When his fingers trail down her stomach to her own breeches, he’s surprised at how steady they are. The laces dissolve in his hands like his own brand of magic, fingers slipping beneath the waistband…

The shocked cry of delight rings through the room before Hawke shoves her hand over her lips to stifle it. Varric’s own groan is captured in her flesh as he runs his fingers up her slick folds.

“Andraste’s _ass_ , Hawke,” he whispers. “I’ve barely even touched you.”

There it is, that blush he’s pictured. It travels down her chest, splotchy pink over her perfect breasts and down between them. “I’ve got a thing for that mouth of yours, Varric, what can I say?”

His dark chuckle only makes Hawke’s hungry gaze sharpen. “Sweetheart, you don’t even know what my mouth can do.”

“That’s a lot of talk.” She lifts her hips in blatant temptation. “Especially for someone who doesn’t have my pants off yet.”

“You know I like to give a bit of a show.” He hooks his thumbs in her breeches and smalls, inching them slowly down her muscular thighs. Hawke’s breath catches as he brushes his lips over the sensitive flesh he reveals.

He continues to gently trail light, teasing kisses down to the inside of her knees while he removes her boots, socks, and then finally the pants themselves. Hawke’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug, but Varric refuses to be hurried. He turns his attention to the other tempting thigh and revels in her pale, soft skin. When he reaches her core, he kisses up to her navel until a whine breaks free of Hawke’s throat.

“Varric…” she pleads, hips bucking in the air. “You’re such a damn tease.”

“Isn’t it worth the wait though?” he asks, spreading her thighs wide.

“Haven’t I waited long enough?” she retorts impatiently.

She’s got a point. Varric presses one final apologetic kiss on her abdomen before trailing back down to her molten center. She’s so keyed up he can smell her heady arousal in the air. It makes his mouth water, but instead of diving in to ravish her, he drags his tongue up the delicate folds and finishes by swirling it over her aching clit.

She moans helplessly. “Fuck. _Fuck_. I knew you’d be good at this.”

Varric smirks, even if she can’t see it. “Oh sweetheart, I’m not just good.”

He’s the best, and Hawke has earned the best.

He licks along her folds, tasting every inch of her while she writhes above him until he needs to hold her thighs down. Even then she bucks up to his teasing tongue, chasing the pleasure he’s building.

He can already tell what kind of lover she is, the kind that’s eager to get to the finish, which is why Varric delights in making her slow down, savoring each broad stroke of his tongue over her delicate flesh. He treats her like the finest whiskey, sipping at her until she whimpers and tugs him closer.

Never one to deny a lady her whims, he finally spears her with his broad, thick fingers. They slip easily into her dripping entrance, but the sound they drag out of her goes right to his cock. He thrusts, watching her roll against his hand, fuck herself on his fingers.

His mouth goes dry and his own arousal scorches through his veins. It’s a test of his willpower to circle her clit until she’s trembling around him, until all he can taste, see, smell is _her_.

Then she destroys him with one simple sound falling from mouth, a moan so absolutely filthy and perfect he swears he’ll remember the way it sounds the rest of his life.

“ _Varric_!”

He closes his lips around her bundle of nerves and applies a slick pressure that makes her scream and shatter on his fingers. Her muscles flutter and clench, her fingers pull at his hair. He licks up the mess that floods from her eagerly until she pushes him away, whining at the sensitivity.

He wipes his mouth clean of her slick and stares at her from between her splayed thighs. For a moment, the silence hangs tense between them as if the implications are finally starting to sink in.

What in the world are they _doing_?

Then Hawke’s lips curl in a sweet, soft smile that makes him forget any doubt he has. “Well, glad to see that mouth is worth all the trouble.”

He huffs as he rises up her body. “My mouth has gotten you out of quite a bit of trouble, actually. _You’re_ the one who causes trouble.”

She grins and tips her chin up for a kiss. “I caused this, didn’t I?”

“Thank the Maker for that,” he whispers, capturing her lips as he undoes his own pants. When he frees his own aching cock he groans into Hawke’s enthusiastic kiss while he slowly pumps his first over his length.

Hawke looks down, looks back up to him, then quickly looks back down again.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” she whispers softly. “Are all dwarves so… girthy?”

“Like I’m not gonna take the opportunity to claim to be a Paragon among men.” He slides back down her body, capturing her breast in his mouth and sucking on one perfect nipple again only to release it with an obscene plop. “You can take it, beautiful.”

“Of course I can.” Hawke sounds almost affronted. “I’m the Champion of Kirkwall, after all.”

He grinds against her wet core, listening to her stutter for breath while he rubs against her. Then he shifts, meets her blue eyes blown dark with desire, and begins to inch forward.

She takes it like a champion indeed, stretching around him and bucking up to meet his slow, careful strokes. His spine tingles while he explores her carefully until finally, _finally_ , he hilts inside her.

Her legs wrap around his waist again, holding him closer, and Hawke sits up until she can grab his hair and wrench his lips to hers. The angle is awkward, but it’ll get better. They’ll have lots of time to practice.

“I love you,” she whispers.

Lost inside her, tangled in her long limbs, he’s helpless but to tell the truth. “I love you too.”

She smiles, brilliant in her happiness, her heels pressing on his back. “Good,” she states. “Now _fuck me_.”

He rocks back only to surge forward, forcing a cry from her lips. It takes work to keep his voice smooth even as desire claws at every nerve. “If the lady insists.”

Before she can protest that she’s no lady, Varric sets a pace just on the edge of brutal. All she can do is cling to him while he takes her like he’s wanted to for far longer than he wants to admit. Each little choked cry from her lips is music to his ears, her nails raking down his skin a perfect counterpoint to the exquisite pleasure of her tight, willing body.

When he feels like he can’t take anymore, he drops his famous lockpicking fingers to the juncture of her thighs and finds her clit. “Come on, beautiful,” he croons, “I want to feel you.”

She shakes and thrashes, clinging to him like a wild thing before she explodes. Varric swears he smells fire, but he’s too far gone to care. Instead he hammers into her limp body, mouth latching onto one of those perfect tits before he comes with a groan, spilling inside her with shaky thrusts while she smooths her fingers through his hair.

He holds her for several long moments flush to his body before she squirms beneath him and he thinks to let go, flopping to the side ungracefully.

It’s only then that he sees the scorch marks in the sacks and swings his incredulous gaze to Hawke. She doesn’t even look _slightly_ ashamed.

“It’s been awhile,” she admits breathlessly.

“You don’t _always_ light the sheets on fire? Good to know.”

Hawke laughs and rolls onto her side, swinging her long limbs over his in a way that seems just right.

“Varric,” she chides softly. “I _always_ set the sheets on fire in at least one way.”

Somehow, he doesn’t doubt it.

* * *

Hawke checks her gear one more time while the dainty little Orlesian mare she’s been gifted by the Inquisition sniffs suspiciously at Varric. He offers it one sugar cube, stolen from the Iron Bull, to appease it while Hawke’s arms drop to her side.

“I guess this is it,” she says breezily. “Off to Maker knows where. Again.”

“The offer still stands, Hawke.”

She shakes her head quickly, tearing her fingers through her hair. “No. You’re needed here, Varric. That Cadash girl needs a friend like you, and if I ripped you away from this red lyrium mess you’ll worry your chest hair off about it.”

She’s not wrong, but he hates it. He’s packed and unpacked his own bags three times. They’ve been separated before, sure, but not like this. Not when there’s this new spark between them that’s kindled into a fire he’s choked back too long.

“Don’t look so gloomy Varric,” Hawke orders. “I’ll be back to Kirkwall in a couple months. I’ll probably beat _your_ old ass back.”

He smirks up at her beloved, sunburned face. “Your legs may be longer, but your sense of direction is _atrocious._ I’ll take my chances.”

“That sounds like a bet, Varric.” She lifts one eyebrow and beams down at him.

Well, he’s always been a gambling man. He reaches for her waist and she ducks down eagerly for the sweet, lingering kiss he presses to her lips.

“Challenge accepted, Hawke,” he murmurs. “Challenge accepted.”

**Author's Note:**

> Need more Varric/Hawke? The [Hightown Funk 2020 Exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/hightownfunk2020/) has got you covered!


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